


A Blogger and a Detective Walk into a Bar

by DoubleNegative



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, First Time, Fluff and Crack, Friends to Lovers, Gift Fic, M/M, Prompt Fic, no dubcon, totally sober sex though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 13:44:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2231262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleNegative/pseuds/DoubleNegative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hot, they've spent all day on a stakeout, and John lets Sherlock order at the pub. Big mistake, or the best idea ever? (Spoiler: definitely the best idea ever.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redscudery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/gifts).



> Based on the following prompt:
> 
> While on a case, John and Sherlock walk into a bar. It's hot. They order "something cold." Unfortunately, neither John nor Sherlock are prepared for the % of alcohol in what the bartender gives them, and some kind of drunken confession ensues. I'd prefer that the alcohol just loosen their tongues and/or hands rather than set up a non-con/dub-con scenario, but really, what I want to see is sweet drunken kisses.
> 
> //
> 
> NB: This chapter is PG/PG-13, and contains the complete story of the sweet drunken kisses. The next chapter (to be posted later today) is the sober-er, smuttier coda. Use that information as it pleases you.

When John returned from the loo, Sherlock was already seated at the far end of the bar with his hands wrapped around a tall, frosty glass. A second sat beside him, garnished with a lime and dripping condensation. John felt several degrees cooler just looking at it, and several degrees cooler still once he’d slid onto the stool beside Sherlock and taken several swift gulps of whatever Sherlock had ordered them.

Oh,  and it was _good_.

John downed the rest of his drink in short order, and signaled the bartender for another round.

“What did you order us?” he asked, as the bartender mixed their drinks at the other end of the bar, too far away for him to see the ingredients.

Beside him, Sherlock shrugged. “They didn’t have anything I recognized, so I just asked for something cold.”

Part of John felt like that was dangerous, drinking something whose ingredients he didn’t know. But they were in a proper bar--even if they were the only two patrons at the moment--and it wasn’t as though the bartender was going to slip something in their drink. Besides, he thought, there couldn’t be much alcohol in this. It certainly didn’t taste very strong. He didn’t normally bother with mixed drinks, but even a lager sounded too heavy for the day’s heat. Whatever the bartender had put on this--ice-cold, citrus-bright, and not too sweet--it was going down perfectly. When the bartender put the next round in front of them, John had to resist the urge to press the chilled glass to his forehead. Instead, he lifted his glass in Sherlock’s direction, clinking the rims together.

“Here’s to heat waves and wildly unsuccessful stakeouts,” he said, before taking a sip.

Sherlock just narrowed his eyes over the rim of his glass, apparently too sapped by the heat to protest John’s assessment of their afternoon. They’d spent nearly four hours camped out on a rooftop in the August heat. Sherlock claimed they were waiting for a suspect. John suspected they were actually participants in another one of Sherlock’s dubious experiments--at what point does the human body actually begin to cook in its own sweat? How quickly can an invalided thirtysomething Army doctor sweat through his shirt? Just how long will said Army doctor permit them to lie there, watching the back of Sherlock’s neck become increasingly sunburned, before he declares that this entire day is absolute bollocks, they’re both at risk for heatstroke, and he’s going to the pub? (Three hours, thirty-nine minutes, and fifty-two seconds, it turned out.)

“I thought you were in Afghanistan,” Sherlock said finally.

“I was,” John said. “Brought home a souvenir and everything, remember?” He hitched his shoulder unconsciously and tried to keep the bad temper out of his tone. Sherlock _probably_ wasn’t leading up to something offensive here.

Probably.

“I’m just saying, you should be used to the heat.”

“Not anymore,” John said. “Besides, it’s drier there. Easier to tolerate than all this bloody humidity.” He took another long sip of his drink. “On the other hand, Afghanistan was sadly lacking in air-conditioned bars. So cheers to this.”

Sherlock signaled the bartender for another round. His face was still flushed from the sun and the heat, but his sweat-dampened curls were drying into a frizzy halo. John was finally relaxing himself, his heat-induced frustration fading with every sip of his drink.

They drank in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the cool dim silence of the bar, only occasionally punctuated by the clink of glassware and the rattle of ice as the bartender prepared for the evening rush.

“You never let me see your scar,” Sherlock said, evidently still thinking about Afghanistan. “You’re not the self-conscious type, but you always wear a vest or a dressing gown, even right out of the shower.”

John blinked as his mind shuffled through a variety of possible responses. _It’s not that attractive_ , perhaps. Or, _It’s not that interesting_. Or, _scars are only sexy in the movies_. But what actually came out of his mouth was, “I didn’t know you wanted to see it.”

Sherlock made a scornful noise in the back of his throat. “Of course I want to see it. John, I want to see _everything_.”

He didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Of course he didn’t. Which meant that the flush John could feel creeping up his neck was entirely unrelated. Aftereffects of all that time in the sun, maybe. Or the drinks. But definitely not the idea of Sherlock’s all-seeing eyes turned on him, mapping every scar, memorizing every inch of skin.

“I’ve never deleted anything about you,” Sherlock added, in an odd, earnest tone. John glanced at him sideways. Sherlock was watching the ice melt in his glass with a faraway look in his eyes and a crease between his brows that John had the strangest urge to reach over and smooth away. He wrapped both hands around his tumbler instead. Just to be safe.

“I don’t know _why_ ,” Sherlock continued. “You should be boring, you--you wear _cardigans_ and you worry about _bills_ and--” He cut himself off with a gusty, put-upon sigh. “But you’re always interesting and you keep surprising me and I don’t know how you do that. So I don’t delete anything.”

“Um,” John said. The conversation was spinning rapidly beyond what he’d expected, but his mind seemed to be chugging along at a slower pace than usual. He tried again. “You can, um. I can show the scar if you want. Once we get home, that is,” he added quickly. All this time with Sherlock had taught him _something_.

Sherlock’s face lit up. “Really?”

“Yeah, sure,” John said, attempting to sound casual. He wasn’t sure he could keep pretending that his flushed skin and increased heart rate and strangely sweaty palms were unrelated to the prospect of taking his shirt off for Sherlock Holmes, but damn it, he was going to try.

“You needn’t feel self-conscious,” Sherlock said. “Your level of fitness is above average for a man of your age, and the weight you’ve put on since leaving the army is both negligible and proportional to your frame.”

John tried to sit up a little straighter, and found himself swaying alarmingly on his bar stool instead. He braced both hands on the bar in front of him, one on each side of his empty glass, and squinted at Sherlock. “Sherlock. Are you-- are you flirting with me?”

Sherlock appeared to be giving the question some serious thought. “No,” he said eventually.

John tried to convince himself that the sinking feeling in his stomach wasn’t disappointment.

“I’m stating objective facts,” Sherlock continued. “Flirting is overstated flattery and--and manipulation. I’m merely observing things that are demonstrably true.” He nodded once, decisively, then flung his hand up to signal another round, almost toppling himself off his bar stool in the process. John reached out and hauled him back upright, although the sudden movement made his head spin.

“Maybe not another round?” he suggested. “These drinks are--wow. A lot stronger than they taste.”

Sherlock’s sigh suggested that John was being impossibly dull, but he slid the bartender his card anyway.

“For the record,” the bartender said as she handed his card back. “You’re talking about how fit he is _and_ you’re trying to get his shirt off. You’re definitely flirting, mate.”

Sherlock sniffed and stood, drawing himself up to his full, if unsteady height. “Thank you for your input,” he said, in the most disdainful tone he could muster. He turned to leave, continuing to talk over his shoulder. “You’re mistaken on all counts, of course, but--” His foot caught on a bar stool and he pitched forward, arms windmilling as he tried to arrest his fall. He landed in an inelegant sprawl, the offending bar stool rolling gently back and forth on the floor behind him.

“Shit, Sherlock,” John said, torn between a desire to help him up and a fear that he’d ending up falling down too. “You all right?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, pushing himself into a seated position. He looked back at the bartender, who was biting her lip to hold back a grin. “As I said. Mistaken on all counts.”

“Of course,” she said, her voice choked with laughter. “My mistake. Obviously.”

“John,” Sherlock said. “I… may need a hand. If you would be so kind.”

“Right,” John said. “Right.” He glanced at the bartender, who snorted and shook her head. He was on his own.

It took some effort--and a lot of full-body contact, which John felt was unprofessional of him to enjoy _quite_ so much--but working together, and with the support of the nearest table, they got Sherlock back to his feet. Sherlock kept one arm around John’s shoulders, though, and with that precedent set, and given his own unsteadiness, John felt it wise to keep his own arm around Sherlock’s waist. Solely for support, of course.

“Better get a cab,” the bartender called after them as they stumbled toward the door. “And a room,” she added in an undertone.

John chose to ignore her in favor of applying all his concentration to the task of getting them outside and into a cab. He blinked hard against the burst of heat and sunlight that greeted them on the street. Beside him, Sherlock grumbled complaints under his breath, unintelligible aside from the occasional "bugger."

When they finally reached the sidewalk, Sherlock flung his arm up in an over-enthusiastic cab-summoning gesture which nearly unbalanced them both. They stumbled awkwardly until their backs found the support of a bus shelter, and they sagged against it, laughing and panting.

"There's no--there’s no cabs," Sherlock said, sounding distressed.

"Yeah, waving your arms about like a great bloody bird doesn't actually pull 'em out of thin air, you know," John said. It took more concentration than usual to get the right words out in the right order. How strange.

"It usually does," Sherlock insisted, and oh Jesus, was he slurring now? The prospect of Sherlock “RP” Holmes _slurring_ proved to be more than John's inebriated mind could handle, and another round of giggles burst forth. He collapsed against Sherlock, grabbing a handful of dress shirt for support as he pressed his face into Sherlock's chest and shook with helpless laughter.

Sherlock's deeper chuckle rumbled against John’s cheek as the warm weight of Sherlock's other arm came to rest around his hips. An answering warmth settled over John and he lifted his head to look up at Sherlock.

What he saw there would have knocked him right over if he hadn’t already been leaning on Sherlock. His eyes were wide and fixed on John's face, and the desire that burned in them couldn't have been plainer if it were written across his forehead. Sherlock wanted to kiss him. Sherlock was _going_ to kiss him. And it was, John realized, an _absolutely splendid_ idea.

"Oh," John said, suddenly hot right down to his toes. "We should kiss now," he added, just in case it wasn't also written all over his face.

Sherlock's eyes widened further, his pupils expanding until only a thin halo of blue remained. "O’vioushly," he said, and now he was _definitely_ slurring, but John couldn't laugh because Sherlock's mouth had closed over his, warm and clumsy and tasting of lime. John licked into the kiss eagerly, pulling himself closer with the hand still gripping Sherlock's shirt front. He remembered, dimly, that they stood on a public street in broad daylight, but fuck it, he was _kissing Sherlock Holmes_. To hell with the passers-by.

With a pleased-sounding hum, Sherlock dropped one hand to John’s arse and squeezed. John gasped in response and suddenly Sherlock pulled away, looking worried. “Not good?” he asked.

John grinned, alcohol and arousal and joy fizzing in his blood. “ _Very_ good,” he said. “Do it again?" He reached up and threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, pulling him down into another messy, exuberant kiss before he could respond.

There wasn’t much finesse in the way Sherlock’s mouth moved against his, or in the sweet fumble of his hands on John’s hips and back, but John couldn’t be arsed to care. Not when he had Sherlock making small needy sounds into his mouth, not when he had finally managed to get a hand beneath Sherlock’s shirt and onto the warm skin of his back.

Besides, if John was being entirely honest, he wasn’t at his best, either. It turned out several drinks and an indeterminate quantity of alcohol set everything back to year ten levels of competence: awkward, inexpert, and extremely enthusiastic.

John wasn’t sure how long that kiss lasted, but by the time the honk of a car’s horn interrupted them, Sherlock had John pressed up against the bus station. He'd worked one long thigh between John's legs, fitting them together in a way that left no doubt of their mutual enthusiasm, while John dragged him closer with one hand sneaking beneath his waistband and one still tangled in his hair.

Behind them, the car horn sounded a second time. John reluctantly looked up from the mark he was sucking on Sherlock's neck. A black town car idled at the kerb, and as John watched, one window rolled down to reveal Anthea, expressionless but for a raised eyebrow.

"Doctor Watson, Mr. Holmes, if you would...?"

Sherlock made a scornful noise that sounded a lot like "sodding Mycroft," but he disentangled himself from John anyway and wove his way to the waiting car. John adjusted himself as discreetly as he was able before he followed, grateful that Anthea had already rolled her window back up.

Neither of them could quite manage to keep to their own side of the back seat once in the car. Touching Sherlock had quickly become John’s favorite pastime, and besides, it wasn’t as if Anthea or the driver were actually _watching_ them. Sherlock, for his part, seemed determined to taste every available inch of John's skin, an experiment John found he didn’t mind in the least.

Slowly, though, the purr of the car's engine and the aftereffects of alcohol and heat began to take their toll. Their hands slowed, their kisses grew sleepy, and John let his head drop to Sherlock's shoulder. He felt Sherlock's lips graze his forehead as his eyes drifted shut.

"This was the best... the best idea," John murmured sleepily.

"'S why I'm a geniuth," Sherlock replied, and then began to snore softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next stop: the porny epilogue!


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after...

John woke the next morning with a pounding headache and a throbbing erection. Both of those things, however, faded to the background in comparison to the sensation of the world's only consulting detective kissing his way down John's spine.

"You’re finally awake," Sherlock said, lips grazing John's lumbar vertebrae.

“How long’ve you been waiting?" John resisted the urge to stretch, unwilling to do anything that might interrupt the pleasant tickle of Sherlock’s stubble on his bare skin.

"Twenty-seven minutes. I believe we have unfinished business," Sherlock continued, as his mouth moved lower. "We didn't get very far last night," he added, his breath humid on the curve of John's sacrum.

After Mycroft's town car had dropped them off at Baker Street, they'd made it up to Sherlock's room and out of their clothes before falling asleep on top of the duvet, too tired and too inebriated for anything except a bit more clumsy snogging.

John had briefly worried, sometime between pulling his vest over his head and curling up with his back pressed to Sherlock's front, that the kisses were something they would both regret in the sober light of morning.

With the sober light of morning now shining through the curtains, however, he realized he had nothing to fear. John wanted nothing more than to continue what they'd started, and if the nibbling kisses Sherlock was applying to the curve of John's arse were any indication, he felt the same.

Sherlock nuzzled a little lower, and the tickle of his wild hair against sensitive skin finally pushed John into action. "Jesus, Sherlock," he said, trying not to gasp. "Come up here so I can feel you properly, yeah?"

Sherlock let his tongue wander just a little further--pulling a shaky moan from John--before he crawled his way back up the bed, settling in behind John and letting his cock nudge its way between John's thighs.

"Better?" he asked, rolling his hips and skimming his hand from John's collarbone down to his navel. The graze of his fingers sent sparks racing down John's spine.

"Oh God, yes." John pushed back against him, wanting more: more of Sherlock’s lean, muscular body pressed against his back, more of his gorgeous cock, more of his hands, his mouth, _everything_. Sherlock let his hand drift lower, tracing the line of golden brown hair that ran down from John's navel, letting his fingers rest just above John's cock, now aching with arousal. A fat bead of pre-come shone at the tip, and with a soft sigh, Sherlock dragged one finger through it. John bucked against him once more at the contact, and moaned aloud as Sherlock pressed the finger to his lips. John sucked it into his mouth eagerly, his own taste mixing with the salt of Sherlock's skin. He couldn’t help a little grin at the feeling of Sherlock’s cock twitching against him as he swirled his tongue around the tip of Sherlock’s finger.

John didn’t bother trying to stifle his moan as Sherlock thrust between his thighs, grown damp with sweat and pre-ejaculate. Unable to stand it any longer, he reached down to wrap his hand around his neglected erection, moaning in relief at the contract.

“John, I-- we need--” Sherlock’s breath came in sharp stutters, and the heady pleasure of knowing that all that arousal was _because of him_ flooded through John in a hot rush.

“Lube?” he suggested, breathless and trying not to come off like a shot right there, two minutes into it. He couldn’t remember when he’d last been so turned on, when he’d burned so brightly for anyone, but Sherlock seemed able to deduce what John liked in record time. He should have guessed that Sherlock would use his genius as effectively in the bedroom as he did everywhere else, but then again, he’d spent months trying not to imagine what Sherlock would be like in bed.

"Lube. Right. Yes." Sherlock sounded distracted, utterly out of his head with arousal. It was glorious, better than any furtive midnight fantasy John could have conjured.

A rush of cool air hit his back as Sherlock rolled away, but a moment later he was back, pushing his now-slick cock between John’s thighs and wrapping a slippery hand around John’s erection. “Oh _fuck_ yes, Sherlock, fuck--” He couldn’t stop the words tumbling out of his mouth as they moved together. The heat of Sherlock’s body, the slide of his cock across the sensitive skin of John’s inner thighs and perineum, the gasp of Sherlock’s breath in his ear--any one of those things was enough to drive him to distraction. But the sight of Sherlock’s elegant musician’s hand wrapped around John’s cock, the way he’d so often imagined it when he was alone, was what finally sent John over the edge. He came with a sobbing gasp, wrapping his hand around Sherlock’s and pushing into their joined hands one final time.

Behind him, Sherlock let out a ragged moan and tightened his grip on John’s hip as he came in a hot slick spurt. Christ, John had forgotten how shockingly _good_ it was, feeling a partner come apart like that. His only regret was that he couldn’t see Sherlock’s face when he came. God, he’d be gorgeous, all flushed cheeks and fluttering lashes. He rolled over to face Sherlock, who regarded him with eyes half-closed, a blush still staining his skin. “Next time,” John said, before he could regret it. “Next time, I want to feel you do that inside me.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and for a moment John feared he’d said the wrong thing. “Give me thirty minutes,” he said, and pulled John closer for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand that's all, folks! I hope the smut was worth the extra day's wait.
> 
> One thousand thanks to: 
> 
> -redscudery for the prompt. I hope you have as much fun reading this as I had writing it!  
> -ShinySherlock & WiggleofJudas for organizing the summerlock exchange.  
> -prurient_curiosity for the beta.  
> -you, for reading this. Yes, you. I think you're magical.
> 
> for more of whatever it is I do, visit me on Tumblr at [onethousandhurrahs](http://www.onethousandhurrahs.tumblr.com/).


End file.
